


A Formidable Foe

by Esteliel



Category: La Comédie Humaine - Honoré de Balzac, Splendeurs et misères des courtisanes - Honoré de Balzac
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bargaining, Corentin Whump, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Facials, Lydie Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 22:20:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18433256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: The situation was not exactly free from danger—but all the same, having grasped a glimpse as to the nature of Herrera, Corentin felt more at ease now. It was the unknown that was dangerous. Once he had sounded the hidden depths of a man, time would show opportunities of how to take advantage of his knowledge to bring any enemy to his knees.To grovel before Herrera now was a small price to pay, especially for a man like him, who had played worse parts. It would have been a greater pain to come up with money, had Herrera asked for two hundred thousand francs, than to play the penitent on his knees for as long as Herrera liked.





	A Formidable Foe

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to Kainosite for a) cunningly dragging me into a nonexistent fandom in the first place, b) finding the magic word that made it impossible not to write this and c) being an incredibly helpful beta. <3

There had been only one empty seat in the diligence from Bordeaux to Paris; Corentin had been happy to offer it to Derville, who had become noticeably colder towards him after Corentin’s skillful interrogation of the Séchards had revealed all, yet Derville had taken sick at the last moment, choosing to spend the night in Mansle at the Belle Étoile and wait for the next day’s diligence.

This happy turn of fate meant that it was five days after the deadline set to Peyrade that Corentin found himself once more in his lodgings in the Rue des Vignes, after having made his report to the Duc de Grandlieu.

“Monsieur Peyrade has been calling every day, sir,” Bruno informed him at once. “He seemed unlike himself,” he added, despite his usual discretion.

What could have happened in Corentin’s absence? Had their enemies seen through Peyrade’s disguise? With the news about Lucien’s fortune that Corentin had brought Grandlieu, it did not truly matter. Nevertheless, Bruno’s report on Peyrade’s state of mind was unsettling enough that within half an hour, Corentin had changed into the disguise of a merchant to go calling on his friend, only to find Peyrade instead arriving at his door.

Even before he had led Peyrade into the secluded room where they would not be overheard by any neighbor, Corentin felt a jolt of unease. He understood now why even Bruno had been unsettled, for Peyrade looked quite unlike himself. To any other observer, perhaps, Peyrade would appear no different in his guise as Père Canquoelle, but Corentin immediately saw the traces left by many sleepless nights, the tension of his shoulders that betrayed great agitation, and the widened pupils of a man who had received terrible news.

As soon as he had closed the door behind them, Peyrade reached out, his hand gripping Corentin’s arm.

“They have Lydie,” he said hoarsely. “There are only five days left to do what they want. Surely you can let the boy have that heiress of his—find him an empress even. I know I can count on you.”

“Impossible,” Corentin said, watching his old friend turn pale at his words. He reached out to steady him. “I have just come from Grandlieu. The news is delivered; Grandlieu knows the money did not come from the Séchards. Never mind now, there are other things we can do. Come, sit down. Tell me everything.”

The situation was dire, Corentin had to admit after Peyrade had filled him in on the ultimatum and the meager result of the days during which Contenson and fifteen of their best detectives had searched for Lydie’s hiding place in vain.

“Still,” he said when Peyrade had fallen silent, tears glistening in his friend’s eyes, “still, take heart. We have five days left. Much can happen in five days.”

Peyrade pressed his hand with unwonted gratefulness. “I knew I would only have to wait for your return. You will find a way to save her before it is too late. Oh, my poor Lydie.”

For three days, Corentin made use of all of their resources, watching houses and streets day and night. Several times, he tried in vain to intercept Lucien de Rubempré, thinking that if cornered and confronted with the abduction of Lydie, the poet would be unsettled enough that he might press the man behind the ploy to release her in exchange for some service Corentin might render, for it seemed utterly impossible now that the Duc would ever agree to allow Lucien to marry Clotilde.

Once or twice, Corentin had contemplated whether the death of Grandlieu might serve to turn things around—Clotilde, by all accounts, was passionately in love with Lucien, and would be willing to believe whatever lie he and the false Spaniard came up with to explain the origin of the boy’s fortune.

Still, to orchestrate the death of a man of such standing was no easy endeavor. It had taken Corentin long years to bring about the trap the Simeuse twins at last fell into. Even an accidental death would be near impossible to arrange, with all the attention Grandlieu, Rubempré and Carlos Herrera had already aroused.

No, the weak link in that entire chain was Rubempré himself, and given that time was quickly running out to save Lydie from ruin, Corentin was at last ready to take that chance.

Unfortunately, Rubempré proved as slippery as an eel. By the third time Corentin had unsuccessfully tried to surprise the boy, someone slipped a note into his pocket—a servant, it turned out when he cornered the man later, who seemed to have no idea what it was he had been asked to discreetly deliver.

“It seems we are both interested in the continued success of our common young friend,” the note read. “As time is short, and I’m no longer confident you will deliver the terms of the ultimatum, come to the Rue Sainte-Barbe so that we can discuss what is to be done. You will find I can be a generous man if things happen according to my will.”

Thoughtfully, Corentin folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket. It was, of course, absolute madness to follow an invitation from their enemy. He would be walking into a trap.

Still, at the moment, it was Herrera who held all the cards.

Corentin had, perhaps, shown his hand too early in dismantling the illusion of Rubempré’s fortune. The boy was undone—which also meant that Corentin had lost all of his leverage. Unless the false abbé still thought that Corentin was in a position to undo the damage he had done...

And yet, if their enemy was as formidable as he had so far proved to be, that was a dangerous thing to wager his life on.

Nevertheless, there was hope. To receive this invitation meant that Herrera wanted to see him face to face. And as long as Herrera still hoped to secure the Duc’s daughter for Lucien, Corentin was useful to him as well. Grandlieu might be lost—but it was true that there were other heiresses. Not of Grandlieu’s standing, perhaps—but any man like Grandlieu had enemies, and such families might be more willing to believe that the tales stemming from the visit to the Séchards were false.

Before he set out, Corentin told Peyrade where he was going.

“It is possible that they seek to get me out of the way,” he said, “but I don’t think it likely. It’s too much effort. Not after he sent this note.”

“But why talk to you?” Peyrade demanded.

Corentin frowned thoughtfully. “Vanity,” he said at last. “Curiosity. Our enemy is as curious as I am. When have we ever faced such a foe before? Well, they will find that I am a patient man. I will get to the bottom of this. But I’m curious to see what sort of man we are facing. And I think... so is he.”

He had dressed well, not bothering with a disguise, for it seemed that they had progressed past that point. There was, he admitted, perhaps very little left to do but cede to their enemy’s demands—at least for the moment. Once Lydie was safe, it would be a different situation, even if years might pass before he could enact his revenge.

The place for their appointment was well chosen, for it was an inn on a busy street. Corentin had, of course, sent some of his men to spy on the location. Nevertheless, once he arrived, the innkeeper led him to the back of the property, where a masked man grabbed his arm and rapidly led him into another building, which they exited only to find a carriage already waiting for them.

When Corentin hesitated for just a moment, the masked man laughed hoarsely. “Get in or stay here. He said to tell you that it’s you who wanted to meet. And he’ll meet you on his own terms.”

To hell with it, Corentin thought as he entered the carriage. This was entirely too much effort simply to kill him. And he had to admit that he was curious now to meet their foe face to face.

The curtains of the carriage were drawn—leather curtains, he found out a moment later, which were fastened in place.

The journey was not long. Seven or eight turns around corners later, the carriage stopped again. No more than ten minutes could have passed. The door was opened by the same masked man, who grabbed hold of his arm once more and dragged him down a narrow alley that stank of the fumes of the corner cook-shop. They crossed another alley, squeezed past a broken gate, crossed a courtyard and then entered a building of crumbling stone by the back.

The masked man led him up a stair, then paused before a door on the third floor. “Get in.”

The cook-shop had seemed vaguely familiar—Corentin was certain that he would be able to find his way back here, although he doubted that there was any use in that. Five minutes after he left this room, the place would return to its abandoned state.

When he entered, the place looked like any third-floor apartment of these streets might look—although the room gave the impression that months had passed since the last lodger had moved out, for there was dust on the floor and dirt on the single window, the wallpaper faded.

In the center of the room, a man stood. It was the familiar silhouette of the Spanish priest, Corentin noted with no surprise. Then the man turned around to face him, and Corentin found himself staring into eyes of a sinister intelligence.

“I’m pleased you took my invitation,” Herrera said.

“I had no choice, as you know,” Corentin responded calmly, although within, he was full of tension. Who was this man who had spun his net for so long that as soon as Corentin had left to unravel one thread, the spider had entrapped both his friend and his friend’s daughter?

“Is that so?” The false abbé raised a brow. Was he surprised that Corentin had come to help Peyrade?

“Let’s not waste time,” Corentin said quietly. “You know why I am here. Tell me what you want. I am willing to end this peacefully.”

The man took three slow, deliberate steps closer. He was strongly built, with powerful limbs that matched the strength of his fierce eyes.

“You know that already. Your friend was told—”

“It’s impossible,” Corentin said flatly. “You know it as well as I do. Not because I would not have done what you asked, but because you came too late. I cannot undo what Grandlieu already knows.”

The man’s eyes flashed with the potent anger of a tiger. “Then, perhaps, it is too late for you as well.”

Corentin refused to be cowed. After all, if the man was as cunning as he had been so far, he would already know that the damage was done. “You would not have asked me here in that case. Hurting the girl gains you nothing. All it will achieve is to gain you a powerful enemy. That does not have to be the case. We do not need to be enemies. Give me the girl, and I shall walk away from this. Your Lucien can find another heiress, and I will not stir a single finger against him or you.”

Herrera gazed at him implacably. “Is that what you offer? Do you think that you are in any position to make demands? It seems to me that you stand here empty-handed. Why should I give you anything?”

“I’m willing to give whatever you want,” Corentin said, his mouth dry as he thought of what he _could_ do. Not much. There was a limited amount of money he could procure—but then, the man’s gamble had already paid off, the Rubempré estate had been purchased. What he lacked now was a Duke’s daughter to marry the boy.

“Whatever I want,” the fake abbé repeated slowly, with a deep relish he was not quite able to hide.

Corentin took note of it, wondering if their foe might indeed be the sort of man whose deep-laid plans could be perturbed by sudden passions. If all Herrera wanted was revenge… Well, had Corentin not done much worse than to beg a foe for mercy? He spoke more elaborate lies every day.

“An interesting offer,” Herrera mused, those gleaming eyes giving nothing away. “Even more so because it tells me that you have nothing else to bargain with.”

“I think you are too cunning to underestimate me and what I can do. If you know me—as you must, if you have found Peyrade’s home—then you know that I am a dangerous enemy to have. I’m offering you a stalemate. If I am contacted again in the matter of your Lucien, I will look the other way.”

“Ah, very good,” Herrera exclaimed merrily. “You offer nothing and ask for everything. No. Things have progressed too far for that. You have been quite a nuisance. More than that. But you know that. No doubt you felt satisfaction at thinking that you had driven me to my knees.”

Corentin shrugged. “What is that between men such as you and me? No doubt you feel the same at having me here.”

A smile spread across Herrera’s scarred face, his eyes flashing again with a small glimpse of a terrible passion. “Driving you to your knees… Yes, that would be a start. Well?”

Without hesitation, Corentin fell to his knees in one smooth movement. There was satisfaction in having been right, and also a deeper satisfaction in having figured out at least a part of the mystery before him. It was always good to know an enemy’s weakness—and with the enemy as formidable as Herrera turned out to be, knowing just what passions ruled the man was going to be an advantage they would need in the years to come.

“That was fast,” Herrera mused. “One might wonder whether you have much experience in this.”

“Surely seeing a man on his knees is a familiar sight for you, Father?” Corentin said blandly.

Herrera smiled the benevolent smile of an abbé faced with a sinner, although the dark passion in his eyes would have frightened any other man. Corentin, who had spent his life in the same shadows as this man, who had twice been to prison himself, remained unmoved.

The situation was not exactly free from danger—but all the same, having grasped a glimpse as to the nature of Herrera, Corentin felt more at ease now. It was the unknown that was dangerous. Once he had sounded the hidden depths of a man, time would show opportunities of how to take advantage of his knowledge to bring any enemy to his knees.

To grovel before Herrera now was a small price to pay, especially for a man like him, who had played worse parts. It would have been a greater pain to come up with money, had Herrera asked for two hundred thousand francs, than to play the penitent on his knees for as long as Herrera liked.

“Tell me what I must do to make amends,” Corentin said earnestly, raising his head to give Herrera the imploring gaze of a man who had nothing left to lose. “Surely there is no need for an innocent girl to suffer when it is I who caused you such trouble.”

Smiling slightly, Herrera came forward to rest his hand on Corentin’s head as if to bless him. Instead, after a heartbeat, his fingers tightened their grip in Corentin’s hair until the pain drove tears to his eyes.

“Very good, my son,” Herrera said ironically. “But I think the magnitude of your sins demands that you grovel truthfully. It’s a fine display, but I don’t believe a word you are saying.”

His hand released Corentin’s hair. Before he could turn away, Corentin reached out to grab his hand.

“Then let me prove my contrition and obedience to you, Father,” he murmured, bending his head to press a lingering kiss to Herrera’s hand. The man’s fingers were rough against his lips—certainly these were the hands of a convict, and not those of a priest.

For the fraction of a heartbeat, Corentin could feel the fingers tighten in reaction to his words. Whatever Herrera claimed—and they both knew that Corentin’s display of contrition was but an act—there was a part of him that found a deeper pleasure in it. Would it be enough to sway the man to release Lydie? Corentin could not say, but he thought that it was likely. With Grandlieu already informed, tormenting the poor girl would gain them nothing. And as for revenge… It would undoubtedly be sweeter to take it on Corentin himself.

Herrera did not pull his hand away. Instead, after a moment, his other hand came to rest on Corentin’s head once more, idly stroking his hair. “A slightly more convincing display. Well? Go on.”

Here was another piece of the puzzle—surely there was a significance to the fact that Herrera had chosen the identity of an abbé and inhabited that guise for years. That, in combination with the youth and charm of Lucien de Rubempré, gave Corentin a good understanding of what might move this man.

“I have sinned against you, Father,” he spoke, his mouth still brushing the back of his fingers. “I have come to confess my sins and to beg for your forgiveness. I admit that I underestimated you; that you are a greater man than I have encountered in all my years before; that you have beaten me; that I am utterly at your mercy. I only ask for your compassion, to spare an innocent young girl, to give me a chance to prove my obedience to you.”

“And how do you think you could prove your obedience?” Herrera spoke slowly, with the magnanimity of the priest he was pretending to be—but even so Corentin was able to make out a slight tension in his voice.

Corentin looked up, still holding on to Herrera’s hand. His face was at a level with his groin—a fact, Corentin thought, that was lost on neither of them, especially given the way Herrera’s body betrayed his enjoyment of the scene.

“Surely that is up to your discretion, Father,” he murmured. “At school, we were taught contrition with a ferule. Perhaps that might please you?”

Herrera did not reply immediately, but Corentin thought that he could detect a slight change in the rhythm of his breathing. No, Herrera did not dislike that idea. And Corentin would not mind giving himself up to it. It would be more humiliating than painful, in any case, and what was such a thing to a man used to facing death?

“School,” Herrera said thoughtfully. “You went to school in the Vendôme, did you not?”

Ah, so Herrera had looked into him. Of course, that was to be expected. No doubt he would have heard the rumors then.

“At a time that Fouché taught there, isn’t that true? A man you were... close to?”

“A man who kindly gave me his patronage,” Corentin agreed.

“How close were you in school, I wonder?” Herrera took half a step closer, so that Corentin’s neck ached from having to look up at him. Herrera’s smile widened. “Rumor has it that he was your father. But given how at ease you are on your knees, I wonder...”

Herrera’s hand slipped lower until it curved around Corentin’s neck. It remained there, an unsettling weight.

Corentin suppressed a shiver as he felt a coarse thumb slip beneath his cravat, stroking along his bare skin. He hesitated for a moment, but Herrera did not move, the weight of his hand remaining in place—and ultimately, after all, there were worse prices to pay.

Corentin leaned forward, his hands going to the buttons of the priest’s coat. Herrera offered no protest, and when he at last uncovered the man’s prick from the breeches he wore beneath, it was obvious that the course their conversation had taken was not unwelcome to him.

Herrera’s shaft was as massive as the man himself, thick and of an impressive length, now flushed with blood. At the base of his arousal, coarse curls of a distinctive red grew, covering his thighs and even his balls.

“Well?” Herrera said, his voice having gone dark and satisfied. “Are you truly prepared to beg?”

Wordlessly, Corentin leaned forward, using his hands to steady himself against Herrera’s thighs as he parted his lips around the tip of his cock.

Herrera’s hands slid back into his hair, tightening as Corentin in turn took more of him into his mouth. Herrera was hot on his tongue, large enough that it made his jaw ache. Corentin struggled to breathe around him, but even so he forced himself to slide down as far as he could.

“Yes,” Herrera murmured hoarsely, “that is a more convincing use of your mouth. Come, we both know that every word you utter is a lie; well, you chose contrition, and you are quite right that I can be convinced to show mercy to a vanquished foe. You will simply have to convince me of your earnestness.”

Herrera was enjoying his victory over him; Corentin could taste the truth of that in the bitter drops of Herrera’s arousal that now coated his tongue.

He drew back a little, breathing in deeply, then slid back down, Herrera mockingly patting his hair with paternal benevolence as Corentin struggled not to choke on the swollen length. He’d barely lasted a minute, and already his jaw was sore; still, he forced himself to continue, uncomfortably aware of his own saliva dripping down his chin, until his nose was buried in the wiry, red curls. The scent of Herrera was thick here, the heavy musk of it filling his nose as he struggled to breathe.

Herrera hands tightened in his hair, holding him in place as Corentin desperately swallowed when the massive cock brushed the back of his throat. His eyes burning, his chest tight, Corentin still forced himself to swallow around it, his throat aching. Then there was a moment of reprieve when Herrera pulled back, only to force him to take his cock again and again, stroking Corentin’s cheek while Corentin struggled to ignore the ache of his throat and the instinctive panic of his body at the lack of air.

If Herrera had wanted to see him humiliated, he had what he wanted, Corentin acknowledged when Herrera’s thumb ran gloatingly along the wetness on his cheeks. Still, what were a few minutes of humiliation? It was temporary; tomorrow, he would take up the hunt once more, and eventually, whether it took five years or ten, he would have the false priest in his trap.

Again Herrera thrust into his mouth, forcing himself down his throat as Corentin choked around him. Then there was the sudden rush of bitter fluid hitting the back of his throat. Corentin gagged before Herrera pulled out of his mouth, groaning breathlessly above him. The hot strings of his release hit Corentin’s open, panting mouth and his cheeks, dripping down his face, Herrera’s hand tightening once again in his hair.

When Herrera released him at last, he fell forward. For a moment, he even forgot his furious humiliation as he crouched on hands and knees, coughing, his throat burning and his eyes still tearing up. Then, when the panicked racing of his heart had begun to slow, he slowly pushed himself back onto his knees, wiping at his wet face in disgust, still furious—not at Herrera, but at the fact that he should have allowed himself to be affected so, if only for a moment.

“Here. Let me, my dear boy,” Herrera said, his voice dripping with satisfaction, like the purr of a large cat. Already he seemed to have composed himself once more. Now he knelt before Corentin with all the overbearingness of a priest. From his pocket, he pulled a handkerchief, wiping solicitously at Corentin’s face, who found himself bristling at the gesture.

Herrera laughed knowingly. His hand tightened around Corentin’s neck in warning. So close, kneeling face to face, Corentin became once more aware of the fake priest’s impressive stature. He did not doubt that Herrera could lift him with a single hand, if he so wanted. Strange, then, that the man had not simply taken what he wanted…

Of course, the truth was that Herrera had wanted more than just Corentin’s mouth on his cock. He had wanted the satisfaction of having brought Corentin to a point where he had offered it willingly. Herrera enjoyed the game—perhaps even more than the actual act. Although the man had enjoyed the act as well; there was no doubt about that, given the way Corentin’s throat was aching even now.

“I have to give it to you, that was very sincere,” Herrera said cheerfully, grabbing hold of him once more to first press a kiss to each cheek, then to his mouth.

Once again Corentin stiffened when Herrera’s tongue slid into his mouth, though he offered no resistance to that either.

“What a good little fellow you are.” Herrera licked his lips thoughtfully when he at last pulled back. “Why, if you had been this agreeable when we first met, it need not have come to this unfortunate situation.”

Herrera rose again. Corentin swallowed, not certain if it was revulsion or mere hatred that burned within the core of his body. Regardless, Herrera was not the first who thought that he could be disregarded.

“Of course, I have no desire to end like the Simeuse twins,” Herrera said breezily, as if he knew exactly of what Corentin was thinking. “Which is why I shall hold onto the girl for a few more days.” He held up his hand. “I shall keep my part of the deal—you will have her back, unharmed and untouched. In return, you will do something for me.”

Corentin wiped at his mouth again and raised a sarcastic brow. “I thought I just did.”

“Ah, that was merely a proof of your honest contrition, dear boy.” By his smile, Herrera was enjoying himself very much.

Gritting his teeth, Corentin thought of how sweet it would be to take down this man in a year or two, when he least expected it. Perhaps with Lydie safely married, away on some country estate. Perhaps with Peyrade by her side.

“No, you will have to do something for me. One heiress is gone. You say it cannot be undone; well, then you will put your manifold talents to use to procure another. I’m certain there will be something you can do for me.”

The thought of more work for Herrera was even more distasteful than the bitter residue of the man’s release coating his tongue. Still, after a moment, Corentin found himself nodding. Something could be arranged. The man had the Rubempré lands now—another excuse would have to be found for the source of his funds, perhaps, but he would leave that to Herrera.

“Let me take Lydie home now, and you will not only have my promise that I will not interfere, but I will do as you say. I will assist Lucien in that matter.”

Herrera buttoned up his coat once more, watching him with those penetrating eyes that had certainly never failed to penetrate to the bottom of a man’s soul before. Finally he nodded. “You can have her,” he said generously. “On the condition that you keep your word. If you fail to do so…”

Corentin nodded in assent without reacting to the threat. He rose slowly, approaching Herrera once more, then kissing his hand again in a display of abject submission to hide the bristling indignation that still burned in his heart.

It was not even truly a concession he had wrung from Herrera. They both knew that Lydie made no sense as a pawn, now that the unfortunate truth about the Séchards’ fortune had already been delivered. Still, let Herrera think that he had won regardless. Let him think that he had seen to the hidden depths of Corentin’s secrets.

Other men had thought to insult him before and had paid for it. And his revenge would be a much slower, far more pleasurable affair for him than the scant minutes of pleasure Herrera had found today.


End file.
